


in the shade of the sun, we wrote down another vision of us

by thousandhourcloset



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Boston, Gen, Kink Meme, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousandhourcloset/pseuds/thousandhourcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma's got an extra symphony ticket. It would be a terrible shame to let it go to waste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the shade of the sun, we wrote down another vision of us

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly cleaned-up fill for a kinkmeme [prompt](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/2439.html?thread=1474695#t1474695): "Whenever the X-Men have a huge fight with the Brotherhood, everyone is all GRRRRR RAWR, and they avoid interacting when they aren't in combat. But Emma and Hank (who she calls Henry, because Hank is such a dreary name) are civilized folk, and will have none of that nasty fighting business. They drink tea and discuss poetry and opera and make sly, scathing comments about their teammates.
> 
> Bonus points for Charles and Erik being like OMG FRATERNIZATION even though they're always doing pleasant things together. PLAYING CHESS DOESN'T COUNT GOD HANK YOU'RE SO DUMB."

It took Hank a while to realize the extension in his office was ringing, mainly because it was the first time it had rung in the 6 months since he'd formally resigned from the CIA and been officially hired on by Charles.

"Hello?"

"Doctor McCoy?" It was a woman's voice, clipped and unemotional, familiar in a way Hank couldn't place.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Emma Frost." Hank actually did fall off of his chair, though he caught himself immediately, one foot wrapping around the rung of the chair and the other grabbing the handle to his solvent cabinet.

"Miss Frost," he said, after righting himself. "To what do I owe the..." _pleasure_ seemed like the wrong word. "...phone call?"

"I'd prefer if you called me Emma, please. Would you mind if I called you Henry?"

"You're certainly welcome to, but I'm still wondering what this is about."

"Well, as you might imagine, there are certain perks to being from old New England money, including two very choice seats at the season-opening concert of the Boston Symphony Orchestra each year."

"That's lovely, Emma, but I don't know that you really needed to call me to tell me so."

"I used to take Sebastian as my plus-one," she continued, ignoring Hank. "But, of course, he's not exactly up to the task this year."

"Take that up with Erik."

"Oh, don't worry. Shaw's not much missed. But I do find myself without a companion, and it seems such a waste to go alone or with someone who wouldn't really appreciate it. I was wondering if you'd like to come along?"

Hank kept his voice as neutral as he could. "Why me?"

"I understand you and I share a fondness for classical music. Isn't that enough?"

"What else did Raven tell you about me?"

"She did imply you were a little more polite."

"Go with one of your 'brothers and sisters', Emma. Someone whose friends you haven't tried to kill." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice now. The last time he'd seen Emma, she'd held one glistening finger to Sean's throat, until the rest of the Brotherhood had escaped with the files they'd been stealing.

"Henry. I'm not out for blood. I let your friend go as soon as it was safe--and don't act as though everyone on your side would have been so merciful if the tables were turned." There was something different in her voice now, something that Hank had never expected to hear from the woman who always sounded bored, even in the midst of battle. "This war isn't going to be over in one year or ten or fifty. If we don't want it to end in annihilation, there have to be people who are willing to be... _civilized_ about it."

There was a long, tense silence. When Emma spoke again, her voice had returned to its usual remoteness, giving nothing away. "Do think it over, Henry. I'll call again on Thursday." She hung up.

Hank knew he should be calling his contacts at the NSA, or alerting Charles so they could start making plans about how to trace Emma through her next call or at the event. Instead, he just sat there, head in his hands, staring at the phone.  
\---  
Emma's first call had come on a Monday, and so Hank had three nerve-wracking days where he was always _just_ on the verge of marching over to Charles's office, and always seemed to find a reason to turn down another corridor. It didn't help that Tuesday's New York Times had included a profile of the Boston Symphony's new conductor which he had guiltily slipped out of the paper at breakfast and spirited into his office.

On Wednesday, after he herded the students into the kitchen for lunch and was headed back to his lab, Charles gave him an odd look. "Is everything all right, Hank?"

"Ah! Yes. Of course." Did he know? Could he know? Charles had told him that he wouldn't read his mind without his express permission, except in emergencies, but maybe he'd still picked up something, and really, maybe this counted as an emergency. Maybe the possibility of _fraternizing_ with the enemy was exactly the sort of thing that Charles was looking out for, and he was about to tell Hank to leave, leave before he put any of the students in danger and really, Hank could hardly blame him for--

"These past few months have been difficult for all of us, and you've held up admirably, Hank. Is Cerebro still giving you trouble? Or the students?"

Hank nearly slumped against the wall in relief. "No, no. Just a bit tired today, I suppose."

"All right. Do take care, Hank." Charles turned to enter the kitchen, and Hank escaped up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

On Thursday, he picked up the phone on its first ring.

"Emma?"

"Henry. I hope you're well today. Have you come to a decision?"

"I appreciate your offer, but I imagine I'd cause quite a scene, given my appearance." _There we go,_ he thought. He could just make his excuses, and Emma would lose interest, and he could just pretend that this had never happened, push it out of his mind and go on with his life.

"Oh darling, don't be ridiculous. It would be terribly gauche for anyone to comment. I brought Azazel along with me one year, when Sebastian was abroad collecting on some favors from General Franco. We had a delightful time. If you'd be more comfortable, I could project an illusion around you, but it's hardly _necessary_." She paused. "Have you really not gone out in all this time? Or is this just a way to politely turn me down?"

"Both, actually." Hank hadn't even realized it. He'd gone out on missions, sure, and one weekend he'd driven down to Virginia with Alex to move what was still left in his old apartment, but other than that he hadn't left the mansion or its grounds in over half a year. It was a disconcerting thought. "Why not ask Azazel this year?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"I did, but he dislikes all the spectacle around it. He said music is best enjoyed alone, with a fireplace, a phonograph, and a brandy snifter. I said that there's nothing that can beat the experience of being close enough to feel the vibrations of the air and the minds of a thousand other people reveling in the music."

"I've never seen the symphony live," Hank said, which was not entirely the truth. There had been nights when he'd been at Harvard, where he'd climb to the roof of a nearby building, and stare at the stars while straining to hear the music.

"Then you ought to give it a chance. Henry, this is the last time I'll ask you."

Hank tried to focus on his image of Emma, cold and sharp and unyielding, the wide look of panic in Sean's eyes, the concerned look that Charles had given him yesterday at lunch. There were a thousand good reasons that he should say no. But he couldn't separate out the sound of Emma's voice cracking on the word _civilized_ , or the dizzying expanse of the stars above Boston as violins swelled through the night air.

"Yes."

"Wonderful, darling. I'll be in touch."  
\---  
A few days later, Hank received a call from a local tailor, asking to schedule a time for a suit fitting. He asked instead if he could send along his measurements and get the suit delivered. The tailor had hemmed and hawed a bit, but finally consented, apparently used to the whims of the wealthy and eccentric.

Emma had offered to send Azazel to bring Hank to the symphony, but Hank declined. He had to believe (for his own sanity, if nothing else) that this wasn't all some elaborate trap, but trusting Azazel to teleport him from the mansion to Boston stretched the limits of his faith. He waited until Charles was busy with the students' afternoon classes, then made his excuses to Alex about needing to pick up some sensitive equipment from Boston. Alex had offered to come along, but Hank waved him off, reciting his pre-planned lie about security and a paranoid-but-brilliant Soviet defector who insisted that Hank come alone. Alex had arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

He parked a few blocks away from the symphony building, near a place where he knew he could take some less-used alleys to avoid attention. He got out, put the dress shirt and suit jacket on over his undershirt, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked ridiculous. He was about to get back into the car and start driving back, when Emma walked up. She was dressed in a very expensive-looking dark blue gown, with a white coat over it.

"Dr. McCoy." She smiled, which was a little startling for Hank. "Shall we?"

"Of course, Miss Frost." He said.  
\----  
Hank had been to a handful of high-class events at Harvard. It wasn't often, but occasionally some foundation or another put on a gala and trotted out a few of the researchers and graduate students, mostly for show. Hank had tried to steer clear of those as much as he could, but it was impossible to entirely avoid, and in time he'd learned how to navigate the small talk and gladhanding. The symphony was pretty close to what he remembered, and standing by Emma's side and making polite conversation with various socialites, he felt himself slip back into that familiar script. It was still mercifully brief before the first violin swells signaled the beginning of the music, and they took their seats. She'd been right; they were very good seats, and Hank wondered exactly just _how_ old and moneyed her family was.

It took until intermission to notice the peculiar way people's eyes seemed to kind of slide over him, even as they shook his hand or asked him about such-and-such professor that he'd known at school.

"What are you doing to them?" He whispered to her, once they had a moment alone.

"I have no idea what you mean."

"They see me, but--they don't. What are you doing to them?"

"Every day there are people marching in the streets, monks setting fire to themselves on television, another threat of nuclear annihilation. Just the act of going to the symphony involves an astonishing amount of filtering out discordant thoughts. It doesn't take much to adjust those filters."

Hank shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not what he'd wanted. The room suddenly seemed oppressively bright and crowded. "I'm leaving." He turned away, looking for the closest exit.

Emma caught his arm. "Henry. I'm sorry. I thought it might make you more comfortable. Let me walk you back, at least."

He still couldn't bear to look at her, but he nodded a bit, and she followed him towards the doors.

He felt a bit better once they got outside. Still shaken, but the fresh air and lack of chatter helped immensely. They hadn't gotten far before they heard the music start to swell again. Hank looked around. The brick building near the end of the alley wasn't the same one he'd climbed back at school, but it was similar enough, with enough protruding bricks to make good handholds.

"Hey, Emma?"

"Yes?"

"Want to stay for the second half?"  
\----  
He'd been worried about how to climb the building while holding on to her, but by the time they were in the alley, she was all facets and edges. She drove her fingertips into a wedge of mortar, and pushed down, testing. The brickwork held, and she smiled. "Lead on."

They climbed in amicable silence. Hank reached the top first, placed his hands flat on the roof and flipped over, landing easily on his feet. He offered Emma a hand up, which she accepted.

The light pollution was worse than he remembered it being, but there were still plenty of stars visible. Emma exhaled slowly, and Hank felt a weird thrill of pride. She barely showed it, but she was impressed. They sat in an amiable silence.

"How do you like teaching?" she asked, finally.

He considered the question for a moment. "I don't, really." Charles had been almost apologetic when he'd asked Hank for help, but even Charles couldn't take care of all the administrative duties, recruiting, combat training _and_ regular classroom instruction. Hank hadn't been looking forward to teaching, but he could hardly refuse; there weren't many other people Charles could ask, and the alternative for Hank was to be cooped up in his lab all hours of the day.

Sean, weirdly, was the one who'd taken to teaching the best. Charles hadn't asked him to--Sean was, technically, still in high school--but he'd wheedled and cajoled until Charles conceded and let him lead an unofficial flying class on Friday mornings.

"It'll feel more natural in time, Henry," she said.

"Have you…?"

"Oh yes. For several years after I finished university, I taught literature at--well, let's just say a well-recognized and rather posh preparatory school. I enjoyed it immensely."

"Why did you stop?" Hank looked at her, tried to imagine her in front of a classroom, and failed utterly.

"It got out that I was also teaching classes of a somewhat more proscribed nature, to a few of my favorites." She looked over at him, saw his expression, and scowled. "Not like that, Henry, good Lord. Telepathy instruction. For children, trying to learn how to control psionic abilities alone is difficult, even dangerous."

Hank could believe it. Charles never spoke about it, but Raven had. Still, there _was_ one thing that didn't quite sit right about her story. "Why did you leave?"

She looked at him as if he were dense. He pushed on. "They found out, but you could've forced them to keep you on. Made them forget. Made them not care." _Like you did to all those people tonight,_ he thought, but it seemed wisest not to bring that up.

She shrugged. "Believe it or not, Henry, I didn't emerge from the womb as a master criminal. And these things have a way of coming back, especially when your family dynamics are…complex. Cleansing the minds of the school administrators and parents would've been a temporary fix, at best."

"Would you go back to teaching, if you could?"

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Is that an offer?"

He shrugged. "Just a question. I don't make those decisions." _But Charles does, and he'd say yes._ The subtext was clear.

She laughed a bit and shook her head. "No. Not now, at least. Maybe someday, but--there are things that need to be done in this world first, Henry. Things that need to change." She looked like she wanted to say more, but looked away. "Better to avoid politics, though, yes? For tonight, at least."

Hank could think of a few less-than-charitable responses to that, but instead he said "Perhaps another time." She smiled at that. They sat for a while longer, and then Hank's eyes drifted down to his watch. 10. He'd have to leave soon, if he was going to get back before classes. He said as much, and Emma nodded. They climbed back down to the street, and began walking to where he'd parked.

"Did you tell anyone about…?"

"Just Azazel. He'll keep it to himself. Did you?"

"Alex knows I'm in Boston, but not why."

Azazel was waiting a few blocks away from where Hank parked. He nodded cordially at Hank, and held out his arm to Emma, which she took. Hank nodded back at Azazel.

"Goodbye, Emma."

"Goodbye, Henry. Take care." Then they were gone, and Hank was left to make the long drive home.  
\---  
Hank got back to the mansion in the early morning, just as the sky was beginning to lighten in anticipation of the sunrise. He parked, and opened the door as quietly as he could. He was planning on going up to his room and napping for a few hours before classes began for the day, but a voice froze him on the stairs.

"How was the symphony?"

Hank was unfamiliar with the experience of being caught sneaking in after a late night--he'd been too young and too lonely when he was living at home, and even after he'd moved out, the only places he'd stayed late were labs and libraries--but he imagined that this was rather what it was like. He turned towards Charles, who was sitting near one of the large, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the gardens, one finger marking his place in a book.

"It was quite nice. They have a new conductor."

"Mmm, I saw that the Times had a feature on him, but it seemed to have mysteriously disappeared before I could read it."

Hank kicked himself mentally. It had been too much to hope that Charles wouldn't notice. "Emma wasn't looking for a fight. Even before I decided to accept, I knew she'd offered in...in good faith. It seemed wrong to betray it." He chewed his lower lip, an old nervous habit that felt wrong now, with teeth too sharp and skin too tough. "Not an excuse, Charles. Just an explanation."

"Compromise is not a weakness, Hank, contrary to what some believe," Charles's expression flickered for a moment, almost imperceptibly, with--pain? anger? regret? "Nor is compassion. In any case, you're an adult. I trust your judgement, and I don't presume to tell you where to go or with whom." Charles fixed him with sharp blue eyes. "Though in the future, I would appreciate it if you were more direct with me. We don't have to take it up with Alex or Sean, but I need to know."

Hank nodded. "That's fair. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. Sleep well."

And for the first time in the better part of a year, Hank did.


End file.
